The Closet
by Polgaria
Summary: Miranda Priestly. Andy understood the dynamic. She knew she wanted to please Miranda, desperately craved her approval. Miranda was like that. Seductive. You wanted her to want you, even as you hated her. CANON for the MOVIE version. Please R


: Miranda was like that. Seductive. You wanted her to want you, even as you hated her.

Another benefit. Another hundred and a half names to remember, along with occupations and titles, spouses and mistresses, and any other minute detail in between. Another evening of trailing after fashion and grace herself, like a bit of toilet paper stuck to the heel of her Prada pump. All of this so Miranda would _seem _to be in the know.

And Miranda did know. Sort of.

She knew who the important people were- the designers, the influential press, and the small group of people who could categorize themselves as Ms. Priestly's superiors. She even recalled the names of several important actors at the last chic shindig she'd dragged Andy along to. She talked to these people, engaged with what other's less savvy might mistake as genuine sincerity. As for the rest of them, these ambassadors and governors and nameless rich, that was where Andy came in. Miranda merely tolerated the remainder of the endless swath, all clamouring to be near, hoping some of the Snow Queen's glitter might rub off.

As if it would ever do _that_.

Andy sighed, leafing numbly through the binder of people who would dare approach Miranda Priestly for a little social small-talk. The benefit was taking place the next day, a fanciful evening gala at the Guggenheim. Andy glanced briefly at the clock in the lower corner of her computer screen. It was already ten-thirty and she still had another binder full of rich people to review before the party the next evening. The young woman realised with a jolt of terror that she still hadn't found something to wear.

Andy leapt from behind her desk and ran to the art department, her stilettos _clacking_ harshly on the cold floors, the echoes bouncing endlessly down the empty halls of _Runway_.

Breathlessly, she pushed open a heavy glass door, and three or four confused faces looked up from their harried production.

"What can we do for you, Andy?" asked Simon, one of the harried looking people responsible for putting the Book together at the end of the day.

"I was wondering how much longer you guys are going to be tonight?"

Simon grimaced. "Sorry, honey. Miranda did a real hack job with all of her _improvements _today- we're going to be at least another hour remedying the 'grievous lack of ingenuity' and then we still have to print and bind the bastard."

Andy smiled. "Actually- that's great. I have to go to the benefit tomorrow with Miranda, at the Guggenheim, and I haven't found anything to wear yet. Tomorrow's going to be a madhouse, what with the run-through added back in, and I figured-"

Simon smiled distractedly, waving her away. Sighing, he peeled back another sticky note and made a dirty face at the writing on it. "Have fun in the Closet, hot stuff- one of us will call you when we're through."

Andy bobbed her head in silent thanks, ran back to the office to grab her cell, and made her way through the halls to the most massive repository of haute couture she'd ever seen.

Reprehensibly, the Closet was a disorganized as it was large. Not having spent much time in the space, Andy was having a frustrating moment trying to find any item which peaked her interest. The young woman likened the experience to being at a yard sale, or a thrift store.

_Scratch that, _she frowned. At least Value Village was organized.

Travelling up and down the rows, Andy wished desperately that Nigel were around. The art director always knew what complimented her figure, her skin, her eyes. He could whip a dress off a hanger seemingly at random, yet when Andy put it on, the clothing always looked like it had been specially tailored for her by the most illustrious designer. Yes, over the year at _Runway_, the frumpy Midwestern student had acquired the skill of dressing herself, and yes, she was completely capable of choosing an appropriate garment for the benefit-

But the crux of Andy's indecision was this: she, Andy Sachs, simply didn't trust herself to make the _right_ choice. The perfect selection which would set her apart from all the rest. The young would-be journalist didn't know when she had started to care so much about fashion exactly, but she knew this. It had something to do with Miranda Priestly.

Andy pulled a likely dress of deep turquoise silk from between a hideous saloon throwback and a bright yellow jacket. Growling at the _size 2_ label pinned mockingly to the strap, she shoved the dress back between it's garish counterparts.

Miranda _fucking_ Priestly. Andy understood the dynamic. She knew she wanted to please Miranda, desperately craved her approval. Miranda was like that. Seductive. You wanted her to want you, even as you hated her.

Andy chewed her lip. Maybe _hate_ was too strong a word. Mild-mannered Andrea Sachs didn't have it in her to hate anyone, anyway. No- it was something different, something inescapable, eluding definition. Andy didn't want to hate Miranda, she wanted to _solve_ her.

Resolute, the young woman resumed her search. Several disappointments later, Andy stumbled upon her saviour. It was breathtaking.

A shimmering black mousseline silk cascaded from the high neck to where it lightly kissed the floor. The sheer capelet reminded Andy of the dress she'd worn during her first benefit attendance, yet it was more subtle. The young woman flipped the hanger and noted with pleasure that the mousseline transformed into a nearly invisible lace which flowed down and ended in a deep point just above the waistline.

_It's backless_, she thought gleefully. And it was perfect.

Trembling with anticipation, the second assistant flew to a nearby antechamber that had become an impromptu change room of sorts when hasty decisions needed to be made. The young woman wove through the bend in the hallway, her stilettos silent on the carpet. Someone was already there. Light from a lone fixture glinted off of platinum hair. A smooth expanse of flawless skin glowed in the softly in the illumination, interrupted only by a subtle band of silk and lace, and continued down a pair of shapely legs Betty Grable would have murdered for.

Andy froze. This couldn't possibly be happening.

Hanging back in the shadows, the young woman looked down the long narrow hallway and into the light. An eerie sense of tunnel vision hijacked her senses. Unable to move, to avert her gaze, Andy watched, entranced.

Miranda moved at the end of the white expanse, shifting restlessly from one Prada clad heel to the other as she examined a pair of gowns, only to discard both with a low, frustrated sigh. Turning in the mirror, she gazed at her reflection, a slightly defeated bearing in her exquisitely curved shoulders. Twisting, she splayed one critical hand over her gently rounded belly, while the other moved up to trace a line under the gentle sag of a breast. Miranda stood like that, a look of quiet despair in her usually confident eyes.

Andy's chest ached. This was _wrong_. Not that she'd seen Miranda in so private a moment- thought she was probably going to be assassinated if her voyeurism were revealed- but that Miranda looked so- _broken_. Unable to bear another moment, Andy was about to leave when the older woman sensed her lurking presence.

Miranda looked quickly back over her shoulder, hands flying to cover her bare breasts. She didn't speak, but her lips moved silently as her eyes widened, a myriad of emotions shifting the irises from granite to ice to glittering topaz.

Andy knew that look. It made her shrink with guilt. It clutched at her sensitive heart and threatened to shred it in half. It was _fear_. The same fear she saw in Miranda's eyes when the second assistant had delivered the Book to her home for the first time and walked in on a very private argument between wife and then-husband. Torn between running away and doing her job, Andy had left the book at Miranda's feet and slunk down the stairs like an abused dog.

Andy didn't know what to do. She was riveted to the floor, agonizing between flight and the torturous uncertainty in Miranda's vulnerable eyes. Every heartstring was pulling her towards this shameful, self-deprecating creature Miranda had suddenly turned into, yet months of conditioning held her back. The silence was beginning to suffocate.

"Miranda-" Andy exhaled. What was she doing, talking _now_? She should be retreating, hiding, playing dead. She couldn't. She had to say it, had to make _her_ believe it's truth.

"You're _beautiful_."

And then she ran.

Andy landed in her office chair panting and trembling like a spooked animal. What the _fuck_ had just happened? Okay, sure- she'd accidentally walked in on a practically naked Miranda, but if that in itself wasn't enough to get her fired, standing there telling her she was beautiful certainly took care of any loopholes. Andy considered briefly packing up her affects right there, but decided against it. She'd already tried that once, in Paris, but the pull to Miranda had been too strong. Seeing her there, dejected in her grey bathrobe, eyes red and wet with tears was what made Andy return to _Runway_, even after her acceptance into the _Mirror_. The young woman had seen behind the pretext of Miranda Priestly, and since that moment, Andy had become addicted to the transient humanity the older woman worked so carefully to repress.

And Miranda, in her own way, acquiesced to Andrea's new obsession. It wasn't anything that anyone else would have noticed, but to Andy, the slight warming of icy blue eyes or a furtive smile ghosting across Miranda's small, full lips when the young woman anticipated her needs- it meant that Miranda trusted her. And Miranda's trust was a precious secret Andy clung to whenever the demands of _Runway_ began to overwhelm.

The ringing of her cell phone pulled Andy harshly back to the present. Fumbling through her purse, she flipped it quickly open.

"Hello?" Andy cringed. _God _she sounded guilty.

"Andy?" It was Simon. "You sound kind of freaked out. Getting late night calls from Miranda asking you to bring her some sacrificial puppies?"

Andy laughed weakly. "Nope- I kind of dozed off waiting for you guys to call. Is the Book finished?"

The Book. How the _Christ_ was she supposed to deliver it tonight?

Simon sighed contentedly. "Yeah- we're all done down here. Did you want one of us to bring the it up?"

"No!" Andy started at the panic in her voice. "No, that's okay. I'm heading out now, anyway. I'll grab it on my way down. Thanks for offering, though."

"No worries gorgeous- we'll see you soon."

Andy closed her cell phone and squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe if she hurried, she could get to Miranda's townhouse before the older woman made it there herself. But what if she got there at the same time as Miranda? Andy didn't think she could face running into the other woman so soon. Or maybe she could wait just a little while, give Miranda time to get home and settled into her study, and then slip quietly inside with the mock-up and dry cleaning…

Andy snorted. If she wasn't already going to get sacked, making Miranda wait for the Book would cinch the deal. Andrea decided finally that she was being ridiculous. She'd been less anxious about delivering the Book the first time Miranda requested it. But then, she hadn't just seen Miranda in an advanced state of undress.

Sighing heavily, the young woman realised there was absolutely no help for it. Resigned, she collected her jacket and headed towards the art department, where the printing and binding took place.

On her way, she phoned Roy to see if he was available to take her. The trusted driver would also be able to tell her whether or not Miranda was at home.

"Roy- Hi, it's Andy. Can you drive me to Miranda's- they've only just finished putting the Book together now."

"No problem kid- I just dropped Ms. Priestly off. She sure was at the office late- some emergency?"

"No, but there might be," Andy murmured under her breath. She considered calling 911 in a pre-emptive strike before entering the townhouse.

"Sorry?"

Andy cursed silently. "No- nothing I know of. She wasn't in the office. I'll see you in a few?"

"Sure thing, Andy."

Fifteen minutes later, Andy stood on the stoop of the Priestly residence, clutching the Book to her chest in a death grip. _Breathe_, she chastised herself, though her hand still trembled as she tried to fit the key into the lock. Opening the door, she stepped into the foyer and walked on her toes to the closet to deposit the dry-cleaning. Closing the door with an inaudible click, she moved silently to place the book on the hall table.

"Andrea."

Right. _Shit_. The woman had ears like a bat.

Andy quickly checked her appearance in the decoratively gilded hall mirror, and made her way to the study. Was Miranda going to fire her now? Andy certainly wouldn't put it past her. She walked into the study and deposited the book into the older woman's already outstretched hand. Never able to keep her mouth shut, Andy started trying to apologize.

"Look- Miranda, I-"

Miranda, who was already engrossed in the latest version of the Book, waved her inane stammering away with a delicate flick of her wrist.

"Have you found something to wear to the benefit?" she asked, without looking up.

Andy blinked. So it was going to be like this. Well, if Miranda wanted to pretend, at least it was better than getting fired. Marginally.

"Yes- I decided on a mousseline silk gown by Lacroix."

Miranda looked up briefly from her work. "With the high neck and sheer capelet?" Wordlessly, Andy nodded. Did the woman have the entire repertoire of the Closet memorized?

"That will do. You've familiarized yourself with the guest list?"

"Yes Miranda."

The older woman returned to her editing. "Fine. That's all."

Andy allowed herself a fleeting moment to study Miranda. She looked no worse the wear from the evening's earlier encounter, but with Miranda, it was difficult to tell. With Miranda, you had to read between the lines. Andy noted the small creases around the editor's mouth, and the telling way she was tapping the end of her pen against the edge of the book in her lap. Miranda was agitated.

The older woman noticed in her peripheral the continued presence of her second assistant, but when she looked up, Andrea was already walking briskly from the room.

The next morning Andy arrived at _Runway_ early with one of Miranda's centre of the sun, no foam, skim lattes in hand. Unsure of what kind of mood the volatile editor would be in, Andrea was confident that a small offering of peace was in order. The strange encounter in Miranda's townhouse last night gave the young woman some indication that Miranda had accepted Andy's intrusion and even the heartfelt reassurance the second assistant had offered, yet Andy felt certain that the older woman was still harbouring insecurities at having been so exposed.

Andy absently rubbed her tired eyes as she hung her coat in the closet and deposited her bag under her desk. She had returned home after dropping off the Book, and unable to sleep, had spent two more hours studying the guest list. At one in the morning, Andy fell into a restless sleep on her sofa, dreams swirling around visions of smooth ivory skin and fearful blue eyes. More than once, Andrea woke herself up, reaching out in her sleep, murmuring Miranda's name.

Suppressing a yawn with the back of her hand, Andy looked into the editor's office and saw that Miranda was already seated behind her desk, gazing dully at the screen of her laptop. Her left hand was tucked against her neck, and the fingers of her right hand were slowly massaging a temple. Apparently, Miranda hadn't slept well either.

Brandishing the latte like a sacrificial animal, Andy made her way into the editor's office. The older woman looked up from her work and angled the screen of the laptop down. Seeing the coffee, her eyes warmed and that oh so-not-there smile gently curved the full lips. Andy grinned.

"You look like you could use this."

Miranda narrowed her eyes, but the ghost smile was still present. "Is that your off handed way of saying I look tired, Andrea?"

Andy shrugged and handed off the latte, surprised when Miranda actually took the cup from her hand, their fingers brushing. "I didn't sleep well last night, maybe I'm empathising."

Miranda offered a small nod and took a sip from the steaming cup. She closed her eyes in pleasure. Andy, satisfied that she'd made Miranda's day the smallest bit easier turned to leave, and saw Emily entering the office looking harried and on edge. She was about to inquire if there was anything she could do to help, when Miranda's voice beckoned her back.

"Andrea."

Andy turned around, wondering if she was about to be sent out on some hapless errand or other. When Miranda didn't immediately launch into some endless tirade about skirts or shoes or scarves, the young woman cocked her head, confused. For a moment, Miranda seemed to share that confusion, as if she'd forgotten why she'd called her assistant back. Then, as if some decision had been made, Miranda smiled. Not a hint of derisiveness, not a whisper of insincerity. Miranda Priestly _smiled_ at her. Raising the Starbucks cup in some sort of explanatory gesture, the editor mouthed the words _thank you_. Andy nodded, astounded.

As if coming back to herself, Miranda narrowed her eyes. "That's all," came the requisite 'get out' phrase, but it lacked the usual humiliating lilt of dismissal.

Walking back to her desk, Andy briefly felt sorry for the devil, because he was certainly freezing his hairy ass off in hell right now. Sitting at her desk, the second assistant realized that Emily was glaring at her with a look clearly stating _what have you done now? _The Englishwoman hadn't seen the secret exchange, and the only reason Miranda Priestly called you back into her office only to dismiss you again moments later was if you'd _really _screwed something up. Emily glanced under Andrea's desk to see if the girl had mysteriously reverted to that pair of hideous loafers she'd shown up in on her first day. Nope. High Chanel boots peeked out from under the desktop.

Andy shrugged noncommittally, though she was inwardly ecstatic at Miranda's strange behaviour, and had to suppress a shit-eating grin as she brought up the day's schedule on her computer screen. There was a massive list of things she had to do today, including at least five different errands which had to be completed _before _the ten o'clock run through. Andy opened her small moleskin journal and began writing the tasks down in order of where they would take her in the city. She'd always found she could be more efficient if she planned her route instead of flying out the doors of Elias-Clarke in a fit of panic-induced apoplexy.

Fifteen more dresses from Chanel to remedy the disappointing lack of selection, twenty bags from Mark Jacobs, not in that hideous periwinkle for god's sake, a special order of James Holt obi style leather belts that Miranda on a whim had decided to feature, despite her displeasure with James' previous attempt at east meets west fusion- the list seemed endless.

Realising also that Miranda could, and probably _would_ move the run through up by at least fifteen minutes, Andy grabbed her coat from the closet and dashed from the office.

As it happened, Miranda _did_ move the run through up- by an eviscerating three quarters of an hour. She also phoned Andy mid-jaunt a half dozen times, requesting among other things extra scarves from Hermes, Prada mittens for the twins because there was supposed to be some _dreadful_ cold snap from the east, and her usual eggs from the swanky bistro which Andrea _knew _would end up in the trash, anyway. Sitting in the car with the steaming take-out box on her lap, Andy was tempted to begin the ever-popular mantra of _I love my job_ that Emily seemed to make frequent and effective use of. Andy instead recalled the brilliant -if completely unorthodox- 'Miranda' smile she had been graced with that morning, and with it, a traitorously unbidden vision of the vulnerable beauty from the previous evening.

_What the hell?_ the young woman wondered, quickly driving the apparition from her mind. Yet a subconscious smiled played about her mouth, realised only when Andy pulled out a small mirror to check her makeup before re-entering the office. She looked like a lovesick puppy. Sighing heavily, the young woman realised she would have to deal with this -whatever _this_ was- later. With Miranda's abrupt rescheduling in effect, Andy was already on the terrifying cusp of being late.

After tearing through the lobby and nearly goring herself on the turnstile, Andy rode the elevator up to the seventeenth floor, praying that she'd make it to the office before the run through began. Barking an insincere _sorry_ to a pair of twiggy women from the art department, she elbowed her way through the crowed hallway and arrived in the office with three and half minutes to spare, panting like a laboured pack horse.

Unceremoniously dumping the bags of items behind her desk, Andy charged into the kitchen with the take-out box while an unimpressed Emily rolled her eyes from her desk. Andy dumped the eggs onto a plate of white china and confettied the food generously from a small container of vibrant green cilantro. Miranda _detested _parsley.

Trying desperately to get her breathing into some semblance of normal rhythm, the young woman trotted into the editor's office, which thankfully was still devoid of any run through proceedings.

"What's that?" Miranda looked up from the Holt obi belt sketches on her desk. "I don't want _that. _The run through begins in less than five minutes."

Andy felt an ironic need to burst out laughing. She contained herself. With difficulty.

"Did you bring everything I asked for?"

Andy nodded, still holding the tray of rejected breakfast.

"Well get it in here, then. Am I supposed to divine the particular cut of the new Mark Jacobs bag, sight unseen? Do I look psychic? By all means, fetch me a crystal ball."

The young woman repressed a snort.

_Psycho_ _is more like it_, Andy thought derisively, but a small smile crept onto her face as she ran back to her desk. As demeaning as Miranda's comments were supposed to be, the young woman couldn't help but appreciate the intelligence and scathing wit behind each sarcastic jab.

Realising that the rest of the workday was going to be a write off Miranda-wise, Andy decided to simply enjoy being verbally drawn and quartered by the dread editor. After all, it was what Miranda did best.

The afternoon passed in relative peace when compared to the hectic scramble the morning had been, and by the time Andy went down to the beauty department to have her hair and makeup done for the benefit, she was in a fair mood. That was, until she walked past the Closet. As it had earlier that day, the memory of Miranda standing there at the end of that long hallway moved before Andy's eyes. And like before, the young woman couldn't stop the warmth that suffused her body or the shivers that danced through her nerves.

This was ridiculous. She still didn't have time for it. She had a job to do, and standing around all evening picturing Miranda naked while she tried to remember the names of a bunch of rich snobs was not a viable game plan. Again, Andy forced the image from her mind and practically sprinted the rest of the way to the beauty department. _Tomorrow_, she told herself bracingly. _I'll deal with this tomorrow._

Two hours later, Andy milled around the ever-increasing mass of bodies that filled the Guggenheim's great hall. She recognized a few editors from important publications like Vanity Fair and The New Yorker, and realised with a certain pang of loss that her dream of becoming a journalist had faded somewhat during her tenure at _Runway_. Whatever. She was still young, she had plenty of options. And right now, she couldn't leave Miranda.

Feeling the mood in the large gathering shift, the young woman realised that the editor of _Runway_ must have made her appearance. Andy's eyes were drawn immediately to where the older woman was standing- a high balcony where she could survey her subjects, some loyal, some not. Everyone had their eyes on her.

Miranda made her usual dramatic entrance, gliding down the broad spiral in the centre of the museum's great hall, her hand gentle caressing the banister as she descended. Andy's breath caught, and she realised finally why her british counterpart always seemed to have tears in her eyes at the moment of the editor's arrival.

The sculptural gown seemed almost an extension of Miranda's body, the illusion furthered by the warm, silvery fabric which transformed the older woman into a statuesque vision, a breathing, shimmering Michelangelo come to life from the museum's collection.

Andy very suddenly felt like a little girl, playing dress up in her mother's closet. Sure, she looked fine in the mousseline silk gown, but Miranda- Andy gulped. Miranda was absolutely fucking _breathtaking_.

As she reached the levelled expanse of the great room, Miranda directed her attention to Andrea and summoned the young woman with a delicate turn of her head. _Showtime_.

Forty five minutes later, Andy was barely holding it together. Every time Miranda moved to weave towards another meaningless conversation, her trademark perfume drifted around the young woman in a delirious miasma- and when the editor needed a name fed to her, the way she curved her shoulders and coyly turned towards Andrea made her knees shake.

Andy resisted the urge to toss back the entire flute of champagne in one relieving go as Miranda entered into another conversation with several bigwigs from the museum. Andrea Sachs didn't get wasted. She didn't even get tipsy. Besides, Miranda seemed to be intoxication enough to ruin her inhibitions this evening.

Irv Ravitz, chairman of Elias-Clarke, added himself to the small throng surrounding Miranda. Appraisingly, he looked Miranda up and down, his gaze resting intrigued at the shadowy hint of cleavage interrupting an expanse of smooth skin. Andy wanted to throttle the little letch. He treated Miranda like a distempered dog, snapping at his ankles, and yet he dared to find himself worthy of regarding the beautiful woman like some possession, some trinket on a shelf in his office. It made Andy nauseous.

The conversation had dwindled and Miranda looked ready to continue her rounds when Irv stepped forwards, a sycophant's smile twisting his mouth.

"Would you care to dance, Miranda?"

Andy didn't miss the look of intense distaste that flickered in Miranda's eyes, even if Irv did. The young woman hated that the chairman had Miranda trapped, knowing as well as she did that the other woman would demure for the sake of appearances. Just as Miranda was about to acquiesce to the proffered hand, Andy stepped valiantly in.

"Excuse me Mr Ravitz," she brushed the man aside, not impolitely, and focused on the editor. "Miranda, sorry- you wanted me to remind you to telephone the girls at nine thirty. It's forty past now- I'm sorry I lost track of the time."

Miranda's transition was seamless.

"Yes- of course you're right. Irv, I apologise but you'll have to excuse me."

Ravitz nodded as graciously as he could, thought the look that he gave Andy was suspicious. She didn't care, and she felt slightly elated that her quick thinking had spared Miranda the torment of dancing with the insufferable little whelp. Weaving through the crowd after Miranda, the two ended up in the expansive sculpture garden, empty save for a few smokers braving the coolness of the night air.

"The girls, Andrea?" Miranda murmured dryly. "You know I already called them an _hour _ago at their father's."

Andy smirked. "I do. You do. But he-" she gestured back to the crowd, "he doesn't, does he?"

Miranda regarded her with a slightly disapproving look, but slowly, her lips quirked into a wry smile and she rolled her eyes. She looked positively sassy. Andy loved it.

"Well," Miranda said, suddenly aware that she'd slipped past mere civility for the second time in one day. "Now that I've escaped the huddled masses, I'm not certain I particularly want to rush back in." Make that three times.

"So don't," Andy offered boldly. "You've done your time. You cruised, you schmoozed. You deserve an early night."

Miranda frowned and the young woman quailed.

"Well, as I have your _permission_, perhaps I will go home."

Andy relaxed, marginally. Was that Miranda's idea of a joke? The woman really needed to work on her delivery.

"Call Roy- have him bring the car around to the garden entrance. I refuse to get trapped in another…_foray_ of socialization."

Nodding, Andy whipped the cell phone out of her small clutch. She'd left her larger purse at _Runway_, taking out only valuable and needful items. A compact wallet, her phone, and the key to Miranda's townhouse were all that resided in the small handbag.

The call having been made, Andy stood somewhat awkwardly in the encroaching silence.

"Will you be staying?" Miranda asked, trying to sound disinterested.

Andy shook her head. "No- I'm pretty beat." She didn't add that she actually hated these events, hated the way people sucked up to Miranda only to turn around and gossip when they thought she was out of earshot. "I'm going to call a cab and go home."

Miranda sniffed. "Don't be ridiculous. You're not getting into some filthy cab in a Lacroix. Roy will drop you off after the townhouse."

Stunned, Andy dipped her head in silent thanks. Sure, she rode around in the car with Miranda all the time- but this was different. It was almost like the older woman was _escorting_ her home. She forced the fantastic notion from her mind. Miranda was being efficient, nothing more. Hell- she was getting dropped off _first, _not Andy.

The two walked in relative quiet to the street entrance of the sculpture garden, and as promised, the car was already there, Roy waiting by the open door.

"Ms. Priestly," he murmured as Miranda slid gracefully into the waiting warmth of the car. Andy walked around the other side, surprised to find that Roy had followed her to offer the same courtesy. She murmured a stunned _thank you_ and stepped into the town car.

Silence in small, enclosed spaces was not one of Andrea's strong suits. She glanced over at Miranda, who was staring blankly out the window at the passing buildings. Willing herself to keep her mouth shut, Andy settled for fidgeting with the clasp on her sequinned clutch. Miraculously, Miranda broke the reticent atmosphere.

"The Lacroix was a good choice Andrea. You look…exceptional this evening."

Andy's head snapped up. Her eyes flickered to Miranda's shadowed form, but the other woman was still gazing out the window.

"I- um-" Andy forced herself to breath. "Thank you." Miranda offered an imperceptible nod.

"Are you wearing Valentino?" It was a silly question. Miranda _always_ wore Valentino to these sorts of events.

"Yes."

There was no hope for it, Andy couldn't have stopped herself if she tried. "He outdid himself. You look gorgeous." Shit. _Shit._

Miranda looked at Andy then, as if seeing her for the first time. Her eyes shone in the passing city lights, her expression unreadable. Andy lowered her gaze and stared at her lap, wondering what in god's name she thought she was doing.

"Andrea."

The young woman forced herself to look up. Miranda was staring at her with an expression so much like the one in the Closet that Andy was scarcely able to breathe. The older woman's hands twisted nervously in her lap and she looked so goddamn vulnerable.

Andy didn't think. She couldn't _think_. She leaned across the seat and she kissed that heartbreaking look right off Miranda Priestly's beautiful face.

The older woman stiffened in shock, but Andy didn't pull away. She caressed Miranda's soft lips with her own, smoothed silky hair away from a soft cheek with the back of her hand until amazingly, Miranda dissolved into her touch. Tentative hands slid around the assistant's waist and trembled up the bare skin of her back. Andy suppressed a moan when the other woman nipped playfully at her lower lip, and pressed herself wantonly into the forgiving curves of Miranda's body. Miranda did moan- and oh god, her hands were _everywhere_- and-

The car stopped. Miranda stopped. It all stopped.

Miranda pulled abruptly away and slid wordlessly towards the door, not looking back as she stepped out onto the street. Andy was so stunned that it took her several moments to even realise what had just happened.

_Shit. _She bolted out of the open door after Miranda, narrowly avoiding having her face slammed into the window as the older woman hastily evacuated the car.

"Miranda- _wait_-

The older woman had already entered the townhouse and locked the door behind her. Almost in tears, Andy suddenly remembered the key she had tucked away in her small clutch.

"I am _so _going to get fired for this," she whispered as she unlocked the door and entered Miranda's home, uninvited.

The foyer was dark and Andy almost tripped over the umbrella stand as she looked furtively around for some sign of where the older woman had gone. A soft light suddenly appeared on the landing, and Andrea moved silently to the stairs.

She had to climb two flights, before she found the source of the light- an open door near the second landing. Not daring to even breath, Andy quietly crept towards the doorway and peered into the room, which turned out to be the master suite.

Miranda stood at a contemporary vanity, leaning heavily on her arms. Her face was hidden behind a shock of unruly hair, but her shallow breathing told Andy that her daring kiss had unsettled the older woman beyond the awkwardness of an assistant macking on her boss. The young woman exhaled heavily.

"What do you think you're doing?" Miranda didn't look up.

Andy took a step inside the doorway. "What just happened?"

"You kissed me, Andrea," the older woman spat. Well yes, that was obvious, but-

Andy took another step. "You kissed me back."

"That's not- I- the point is," Miranda's voice trembled, broke. "The point _is_-

Andy closed the distance between them in a second and stood behind the other woman, wrapping her arms protectively around Miranda's shivering body. Miranda raised her head and looked imploring at the young woman in the mirror.

"_Why_?"

"Because I can see you, Miranda."

It was as simple as that. Andy hoped it would be enough. Miranda relaxed slightly, leaning against the woman behind her.

"What do you see?" she whispered.

Andy smiled into Miranda's hair. "I see a vibrant, strong-willed woman. She's powerful, but more than that, she's passionate. I see a woman who rules in whispers and commands with a look- but she transforms when she speaks on the phone with her daughters, her love for them an ever constant source of strength. This woman, who hides behind a necessary vale of cold indifference has sacrificed so much to prove herself worthy, yet she looks into the mirror and all she can see is an empty reflection, a stranger staring back at her. I see her loneliness, her fear of never being good enough. And I see past it. She is more than worthy. I see a woman who deserves to be loved- and she is beautiful."

Miranda turned in Andy's arms and buried her face into the younger woman's neck. Her arms clung desperately to the slender waist, her breath uneven and warm through the sheer silk at Andy's neck.

"Let me show you," Andy murmured, holding Miranda tightly against her. "Please let me show you how beautiful you are."

The older woman nodded and allowed herself to be pulled towards the bed. With more luck than skill, Andy found the zipper of the Valentino and slowly pulled it down until the only thing holding the dress up was Miranda's body pressed against her own. She stepped away and let the silk cascade to the floor. Wordlessly, Miranda reached with shaking hands and unbuttoned the collared neck at Andy's throat. The fine mousseline seemed to dissolve down the young woman's body until it pooled on the carpet.

"The sign of a well made gown," Miranda murmured, stepping back into Andy's waiting arms. She leaned up into the embrace, seeking the other woman's mouth, some kind of reassurance. It was so easy to lean down and capture Miranda's soft, full lips. Breathless, they crawled onto the bed, their bodies a tangle of limbs as two pairs of hands tried to caress everywhere at once. Andy moved over Miranda's body, her lips kissing and nipping from the tender spot behind the older woman's ear, down her chest and onto a pebbled nipple. Miranda writhed under her touch, murmured senselessly as soft fingertips skirted along her ribcage, over the turn of her hip. It was so sensual and so gentle- but Andy wanted to give her more.

Slowly, she reached behind the older woman and pulled Miranda up onto her lap, the strong thighs hugging her hips tightly. God that was hot.

"Tell me what you want, Miranda."

The older woman tangled her hands in Andy's perfectly curled hair. "I want- I want to feel you inside me- please-

Andy let out a helpless little moan as she moved her fingers through the tight curls between Miranda's thighs and felt the slick moisture pooled there. That she had gotten Miranda into this state seemed some sort of blessing and she smiled at the woman's responsiveness.

Gently, she slid two fingers between swollen lips and lightly caressed the hot opening of Miranda's sex. She wanted Miranda to be sure, wanted her to be comfortable, to feel safe. The older woman pushed herself down on the teasing fingers, a sigh of pleasure escaping in her breath. Tentatively, Andy moved her fingers, curling them until she found the swollen, roughened flesh she was looking for. Miranda immediately writhed against Andy's hand, her hips surging forwards.

"You're so sensitive," whispered the younger woman, delighted. Miranda managed another breathy sigh, her arms wrapped desperately around Andy's neck. The young woman watched her lover intently.

Her head thrown back, she smiled breathlessly and darkening blue eyes visible through a smoky layer of lashes gleamed in the low light of the bedroom- one hand desperately wrapped itself around her graceful neck, the sheen of pleasurable exertion making the ivory skin glow. It was singularly the most erotic, beautiful moment Andy had ever experienced. And it was completely Miranda.

"Are you close, Mira?"

Miranda whimpered, arching into Andy's touch. The young woman reached up and ran her fingers soothingly through the damp, platinum hair. Gently, she pulled Miranda down to her until their faces were only inches apart. The older woman had closed her eyes and her lower lip was trapped tightly between her teeth.

"Hey," Andy murmured. "Look at me, gorgeous girl."

The woman on her lap shook her head, tousling the cheeky forelock across her flushed face. Andy slid her hand softly across a delicate breastbone, parting the hands that had crossed themselves there protectively.

"Open your eyes," she pleaded. Miranda slowly lifted her lashes and looked at her with glossy blue eyes, brimming with tears. "You're safe, Mira," she whispered. "Let go."

Andy curled her fingers inside the older woman, pulling her closer and closer to the edge. Miranda moved again, frantic with need, her eyes never leaving the reassuring gaze of the younger woman. Her lips parted in a soundless cry, and she came, clenching warmly around the fingers inside her. Panting, she collapsed against Andy, her head resting heavily on the girl's shoulder. Andy traced light, soothing circles on the smooth back, and felt with dismay some slight shift in the body draped warmly over her own.

Miranda slid from Andy's lap, her breathing still uneven and heavy. Wordlessly, she gazed up at the ceiling, her arms wrapped around her breasts. The young woman scooted closer and rested a hand on the curve of the other woman's soft belly. Miranda pursed her lips.

Not exactly the post-coital glow one would hope for after giving the woman what felt to Andy like a fairly spectacular orgasm. Damage control, again. Andy leaned over to place a reassuring kiss on those distressed lips, but the older woman turned her face.

"Andrea- I can't. This is so _wrong_. I don't want- I can't- you need to go. Now."

Miranda rolled away from her, finding the edge of the coverlet and wrapping it tightly about her shaking shoulders. A deep fear settled in Andy's chest as she realised the older woman was crying.

"Miranda, sweetheart- what-

Andy heard a suppressed sob, muffled quickly by a hand.

"Please," Miranda whispered. "Please leave."

Andy swallowed the aching lump in her throat. The hand reaching out to hold the older woman halted in mid air and was pulled resignedly back. Gathering her scattered clothing, the young woman retreated from the bedroom and pulled the door softly shut behind her. Trembling violently, she dressed in the hallway, tears streaming down her pale face.

It had been one week since Andy had been with Miranda. In the office, everything continued much as it always had. Miranda resumed her usual harsh behaviour, and if anyone noticed that the scathing comments directed towards the second assistant lacked their usual acidity, no one mentioned the strangeness of it.

Andy was becoming frustrated. Since her ejection from Miranda's bed, the young woman had barely slept, barely eaten, and her work was suffering. She almost longed to feel the sting of the editor's verbal whip against her skin, and considered deliberately fucking something up, if only to get a rise out of the older woman. How selfish. She was here to make Miranda's job, Miranda's _life_ easier, and yet she felt like a spoilt child, begging for attention.

After another week of Miranda's listless demands and insults, Andy had had enough. Fourteen nights of barely sleeping coupled with her increasing worry about the editor had taken their toll, and the young woman was a knot of nerves and confusion. For two weeks, Miranda carried on, business as usual- and Andy delivered the Book every night, leaving it on the table and holding her breath, hoping desperately for the quiet _Andrea _that never came. It broke her heart that she had exposed herself so to Miranda, had witnessed something in the other woman she was sure no one else had ever dreamt of seeing- and now she had been reduced again to fashion lackey, errand girl, without a word of explanation.

She was standing in Miranda's office, having just disclosed to the editor that the order of Prada jackets that was supposed to be delivered that morning hadn't come in due to some fabrication mishap. Cold sweat chilled the skin at her throat as she prayed for the older woman's renewed ire.

"Fine," Miranda commented absently, adjusting something on the macbook in front of her. "Call someone at Dolce, then, and request replacements."

Andy snapped.

"_Fine?_" she choked through hysterical laugher. "What do you mean _fine_? Miranda, for Christ's sake! That order was put in a month ago!"

Miranda pulled a pair of chic glasses further down her nose and gazed at Andy over the frames. "If you're so upset about it Andrea, by all means feel free to go to the Prada showroom yourself and take your ill-contained fury out on someone there. That's all."

Andrea stood there, frozen in shock. Desperation suddenly propelled her forwards.

"_That_ is _not_ all," she whispered, snapping the laptop shut, narrowly avoiding slamming Miranda's fingers in the machine. The older woman stared at her tiredly. "What is _wrong_ with you Miranda? I just told you an order you made weeks ago has mysteriously not come in, and it's _fine_? You would've leaned over your desk and strangled anyone else! Ever since I- since we-

"_Andrea_," Miranda warned, her voice dangerously low.

"I'm _sorry_," the young woman intoned desperately. "But you know what I mean. Two weeks ago something happened between us, and not only have you just _ignored_ it- you've been treating me differently, like you're ashamed you had anything to do with me- and I don't understand any of it!"

Miranda's lips parted, as though she might respond to this sudden explosion of emotion, then her mouth closed as piercing blue eyes flickered worriedly to a spot behind the space Andy occupied.

Whirling around, the young woman saw that Emily had just entered the office, thin arms looking like they might break under a pile of paperwork. The ginger brit looked disinterested as she deposited the stack of files on her desk and sat down at her computer. Caught in propriety and an obviously misplaced sense of loyalty towards Miranda, Andy straightened and took several steps back from the editor's desk.

Miranda opened the laptop in front of her and pushed the sleek glasses back up her nose.

"Go to the Dolce showroom and select fifteen or twenty jackets. And Andrea, have Emily deliver the Book tonight. That's all."

Trembling, Andy nodded, turned on her heel and fled the office.

The rest of the afternoon was a miserable write-off. Miranda refused to speak to Andy, or even look at her, and every time she wanted something done, she either sent Emily off on the errand, or when the first assistant was too busy-

"Emily, have _someone _go down to the art department and bring back a larger set of prints from the waterfront shoot. With all of the resources at our disposal, I'm not sure why Nigel deemed it necessary to send up this ridiculous set of miniatures, if not to incur my early blindness."

"Yes Miranda."

Emily glared at Andy, snapping her fingers in the general direction of the art department. The second assistant tried to look apologetic, but she was finding it difficult when things were flying so magnificently down the toilet with Miranda.

_What things? _Andy wondered as she walked slowly down the hallway, in no rush to return to the oppressive atmosphere in the editor's office. So, she'd fucked her boss. _Classy_. No. She hadn't fucked Miranda, she'd made love to her for Christ's sake, and for what? To be avoided like the plague? Andy understood that Miranda was vulnerable, that's she'd shared herself with her assistant in a way that in Miranda's eyes only made her more so. But Andy had tried to be there to help her through her insecurities, and she'd been summarily dismissed- like some whore.

Was that how Miranda thought of her? Andy honestly wasn't sure. The editor didn't seem the type to submit to lust for the sake of a quick fuck- if anything, letting the younger woman in had been an admission of her need for something much more than sex. Miranda had needed _her_-because Andy understood.

The young woman inhaled shakily. So. What now?

Well, right now she had to get a larger set of proofs printed out and back into the editor's office about ten minutes ago. She was sure that, however indirectly, the last thing she needed to do right now was piss Miranda off. As much as she wanted to storm into the office and tell the woman to screw the prints, or the entire publication for that matter- Andy knew that trying to get anywhere with Miranda while she was at work would be useless. God- trying to get anywhere concerning emotions with Miranda would be useless at pretty much any time she could think off. Andy remembered a bleak Parisian afternoon from several months ago.

"_Do you want me to cancel your evening, Miranda?" The older woman looked at her incredulously. _

"_Why would we do that, Andrea?"_

Because you're a wreck _Andy thought, keeping her expression neutral. _Because you're sitting there in your bathrobe, crying- and maybe, just possibly, it would make sense to take an evening to yourself and really think about why your personal life is crumbling around you, and how you feel about that. Maybe you could open up to someone and let them help you. Let me help you.

"_Is there anything else I can do, Miranda?"_

_The editor passed the seating chart back to her assistant, a stoic expression on her face still wet with tears. Miranda nodded._

"_Your job." _

So, she would do her job. She would get the prints, she would give them to Emily, who would give them to Miranda. Such an endearing game. And that evening, _she _would deliver the book, despite her untimely banishment.

"Absolutely not." Emily clenched the key to the townhouse in a frustrated fist. Andrea and the brit were standing in the _Runway_ office that evening, the Book having been brought up by a lackey from the art department at twenty after ten.

Andy narrowed her eyes. "Em- give me the key."

"Not happening. I'm not having us both fired because you've suddenly decided to become- I don't know- but I am _not_ losing my job over your little temper tantrum. Whatever you've done, I'm sure I don't want to know about it. Now get out of my way."

Andy grimaced. She didn't want to have to do this, but Emily was really being quite unreasonable. She stepped in front of the doors.

"Emily- if you don't give me that key I swear to god I will bodily drag you to the nearest Blimpy's in the city centre and I will force feed you ten of their extra thick chocolate milkshakes. One after the other."

The brit kept moving her lips, but no sounds came out. Wordlessly, she handed the key over.

Andy's elation at her successful manipulation of the eating disordered first assistant lasted only as long as it took her to step into the waiting town car. Confronted with the luxurious leather, the darkened windows, the only thing she could think of was the kiss she had shared with Miranda. God- the car even smelled like her. Andy indulged herself in the memory, and when the car pulled up to Miranda's upper east side home, the young woman felt a strange sense of calm envelop her body. The prospect of finding some resolution with Miranda, the phantom sensation of lips, the fleeting understanding between them. It had to be attempted.

She was calm, but she was not confident. And she was about to intrude the Priestly home for the second time in one month. The fact that she had the key meant nothing, because she had been asked- no, _told_- not to come. Inconsequential. She had as much a stake in this as Miranda. She unlocked the front door, and entered the forbidden demesne.

There was no heavy garment hanger full of dry cleaned couture. Andy even considered leaving the Book at the office, considering she was hardly here to make sure Miranda was able to do any editing. She brought it anyway. To arrive empty handed seemed like a betrayal, even now.

Andy walked past the gilded mirror without pause- she wasn't here to pass an inspection. Neither did she stop the staccato of her stilettos on the gleaming hardwood of the hallway. She may be clutching theBook, but she would arrive without pretence. The young assistant walked into the study, finding it empty, but a clinking of dishes drew her towards the kitchen.

Miranda leaned against the counter, her hands submerged in a sink of soapy water. The domesticity enchanted Andy so that she nearly forgot why she had come. She could tell by the sudden shift in the older woman's posture that Miranda knew someone was there, but the editor didn't look up.

"Emily. While I realise it has been several months since delivering the Book has been an aspect of your employment, one would expect that after a year as my second assistant you would recall that a personal handover of the material in question is unnecessary and unwelcome. Leave it on the counter, and get out. That's all."

Andy pointedly let the mock up fall with a disturbing slap on the cold marble island. Miranda turned, soapy water dripping from her hands.

"Not Emily," the assistant offered.

Miranda turned back to the sink. "Obviously."

Rolling her eyes, the young woman grabbed a tea towel and nonchalantly began drying the dishes resting on the drain board. Miranda made no comment, but she didn't stop the methodical movement of the cloth over the china plate in her hand.

In silence, the two women moved in a kind of graceful rhythm. It was almost soothing, until they ran out of dirty dishes and the impending difficult discussion loomed. Miranda removed the plug from the large steel sink and the water drained with a dull sucking sound, the fine bubbles crackling as gravity pulled them into the pipes.

Miranda looked at Andy, then.

"We need to talk."

Andy wiped her damp hands on the back of her ass-hugging jeans and followed Miranda into the study. The older woman sat on the sofa, tucking her legs underneath her body. Andy was tempted to sit beside her, to feel the warmth of the editor's body near to her own. She sat in the nearby chair, instead, crossing her legs and clasping her now clammy hands tightly in her lap. Miranda's gaze locked on a something vague across the small sitting room, and after several long moments of silence, she began to speak, her voice very soft.

"I'm not going to apologise, Andrea. It isn't in my nature. What I will say is that I regret having drawn you into my private dysfunction-

Andy inhaled shakily. "You're not-

"Do not interrupt me, Andrea." Miranda looked at her then, the aching resolve in her features painful to witness. "Please."

The young woman slipped off her shoes and pulled her legs up to her chest, resting her quivering chin on her knees. She regarded Miranda with encouraging eyes, and the older woman looked away again.

"Whatever has begun between us Andrea- it can't go on. I need you to understand this. I need you to accept that I have nothing left to give to you. I can't-" Miranda paused, searching for the words which did not come easily to her. She looked back at the young woman curled in her armchair, her breath catching and dying as she found the inspiration she sought. "I can't care for you the way you deserve to be cared for. I don't think I have that in me, anymore. I'm sorry."

She had said she wouldn't apologize. Andy let her legs slide to the floor, and moved to kneel in front of Miranda, holding the older woman's trembling hands in her own. Miranda looked down, and the dove white forelock fell across her eyes.

Andy reached up and brushed it aside, softly. "And what about you, Miranda? Who's going to care for you, the way you need to be cared for? I don't believe that you're empty, or that you've nothing to offer- and even if I did, the chance to support you, to- to _love_ _you_. I don't know if it would be enough Miranda, but it would be a beginning. Don't you think so?"

The older woman blinked traitorous tears away. "I think you're naïve."

Andy brushed her thumb softly over the limp fingers in her hand. "And I think you're afraid." Miranda lowered her chin to her chest, biting her lip in silent admission.

"What I said when you asked what I see in you- those weren't just words, sweetheart. I believe that you've lost yourself, somehow- that you've forgotten parts of yourself, and that you think they're gone forever. But I can see them, in small things that you say and do in passing- I saw them when you let me hold you. Let me bring you back."

With a shaky exhalation, Miranda acquiesced to the gentle pull of the young woman in front of her, leaning forward to silence the pleading lips with her own.

"I want to touch you," she whispered against Andy's mouth. The young woman wordlessly removed her jacket, and in one liquid movement, pulled the flimsy tank beneath up and over her head. Miranda caressed the exposed skin with soft finger tips, feeling goose bumps raising under her touch. Andy shivered.

"Are you cold?"

The young woman shook her head, pulling Miranda off the couch and onto her lap. "Not even close."

Andy, desperate to feel warm skin against her own pulled at the older woman's sweater until with a sulky little sigh, Miranda removed the garment herself.

"All's fair," Andy murmured, sliding her hands around the delicate curve of Miranda's waist. The older woman's head fell to the side at the sensation, her lips parting softly.

"Is this love, or war?"

Andy paused at the heavy question. With Miranda, it didn't seem possible to have one without the other.

"Both," the young woman replied with quiet honesty.

Miranda smiled at the truth of it and gently pushed the young woman underneath her to the floor.

It seemed that for now, she had the tactical advantage.

With an endearing sense of curiosity, Miranda's fingers traced every bone, every muscle, every soft curve of the willing woman beneath her. Andy was hopelessly aroused. She arched into the quiet exploration, and when a tentative hand slid under the thin lace of her bra, she whimpered. Encouraged, Miranda grew bolder. Deftly, she reached behind the young woman and flipped the clasp open. Andy squirmed and strong thighs pressed tight around her.

She closed her eyes reflexively, and forced them open again in time to witness a shock of platinum hair fall onto her exposed chest. Miranda was going to-

"Oh." Andy sighed as her breast was caressed by the older woman's warm breath. Miranda smiled and took the small, rosy nipple between her lips, gliding her tongue across the pebbling bud.

Andy's sex throbbed pleasantly at the sensation and her hips lifted from the carpet.

"You taste like nutmeg," Miranda commented lightly as she moved to the other soft breast.

"Nut- what?" Had she heard that right?

Miranda licked her nipple appreciatively. "Nutmeg," she confirmed, grazing the sensitive skin with her teeth.

Andy nodded, her lashes fluttering. "Oh."

"I wonder," Miranda commented absently, trailing a hand down the young woman's quivering stomach, "do you taste like that everywhere?"

Andy was beyond coherency as the older woman moved a hand between them and slipped teasing fingers under the waist of her jeans and into the damp heat between her legs. Miranda looked startled to find the evidence of the effect she had on the young woman, and Andy shrugged helplessly.

Caught very suddenly in the reality of what she was doing, Miranda abandoned her coy façade.

"What should I do?" She sounded nervous, unsure.

"Anything," Andy whispered sincerely. "Everything you do feels good. And kiss me," she added imploringly. "I love the way you kiss."

Nodding vaguely at the unabashed confession, Miranda leaned forwards and nuzzled the smooth cheek of her lover, while her fingers moved gently through the slippery warmth between soft thighs.

Andy lay under the comforting weight over the older woman, lost in tender kisses and the glowing pleasure suffusing her entire body. Miranda knew exactly how to touch her, how to tease her and leave tripping at the edge.

She writhed against the hand between her legs, her breath hot and laboured against Miranda's cheek.

"I'm so close, Mira- I'm going to come- _please_ Mira-

She felt a gentle hand caressing her face, and focused on the serious blue eyes inches from her own.

"So come," came the breathy, encouraging whisper. "Come for me."

Helplessly, Andy felt the teasing sensations move into waves of complete, satisfying pleasure that rippled devastatingly through her body. She sobbed through her orgasm, clinging comfortingly to Miranda's warm figure. Panting, she relaxed on the floor and the older woman settled on her with an affectionate kiss. They lay, embraced by soothing silence.

"We'll have to be discreet," Miranda murmured thoughtfully.

Andy grinned. "Do you know how hot it makes me when you insult my intelligence?"

Miranda shook her head. "Tell me."

Andy nipped playfully at the older woman's delicate jaw line. "I want to be all over you, all at once. I want to feel your breath against my neck, your thighs strong around my waist. God your legs are so fucking beautiful, Mira. I want to taste all of you until I can't breathe."

"I see," Miranda offered blithely. "I'll have to remember that the next time you defile my delicate palate with another tepid latte."

"You wouldn't." Miranda arched an eyebrow. Andy grinned. "You would, wouldn't you? You minx. You'd better be careful Miranda- I don't think inflicting harassment-induced orgasms on your assistant exactly falls under the definition of 'discreet' you were trying to outline."

"You talk too much," Miranda whispered, turning her head to meet the lips teasing the sensitive skin behind her ear. Andy dissolved into the kiss, vowing to set up the _Runway_ kitchen with a tray of ice cubes. If tepid was bad, iced would be even better.


End file.
